


jackals in waistcoats

by escherzo



Series: T4TMA 2021 [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Clothing, Dressing Someone Else, M/M, Oral Sex, S1, Trans Elias Bouchard, Trans Jonah Magnus (implied), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, and quite a lot of mentions of Jonah Magnus, somewhat grey-A Jon, with minor appearances from Simon Fairchild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: Elias sides open his closet door and looks inside, a quick look back at Jon as if to appraise him for size again, and then selects something from the very back with a small nod.“These were a gift from… an old friend,” Elias says, looking down at the pieces he’s selected before holding them out to Jon to examine. There’s a little amused smile on his face, like this is a joke that Jon is not in on, and Jon is grateful to have the pieces of clothing to hold so that he can hide himself behind them and not think about how intensely out of place he feels.(Or: In which Elias dresses Jon in Jonah's old clothes for an Institute event)(T4TMA Day 7: Clothes)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: T4TMA 2021 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090997
Comments: 18
Kudos: 154
Collections: t4tma week 2021





	jackals in waistcoats

**Author's Note:**

> and we've made it to day 7! Jon is probably a bit more eye-aligned than s1 typical here. Elias keeps winking to the audience. Baby's first JE here, so no promises on that front. General notes: some use of Elias's powers (mindreading, etc) that the audience will be aware of though Jon isn't, a brief panic moment on Jon's part when he realizes Elias knows he's trans (short, clarified fairly quickly that it's a "I know because I am too" type situation). In general there is a lot of meaning to the situation that Elias is aware of and Jon very much isn't. Words used for Jon are cock/chest, no particular words used for Elias. 
> 
> I wouldn't be able to write historical if a Victorian bit me, so consider this a fond nod to the Jonahfuckers who are capable of such things.

“Knock knock,” Elias says pleasantly from the doorway, and Jon straightens up so quickly he feels something in his back crack. He looks up from the scattered mess of papers on his desk, quickly trying to shove them into some semblance of order before Elias notices, and tries to school his face into something neutral and professional and not like he’s been glowering at the research notes for this statement for the past half hour. 

“Are you in the middle of something?” Elias asks. He has a small, easy smile on his face, and Jon thinks, with no small amount of relief, that he’s probably not here to inform Jon about complaints against him this time. Probably.

“Yes,” Jon says, and then stops and corrects himself, because Elias is looking down at the mess on his desk with a critical, searching eye, and he can feel himself heating under the scrutiny.

“...not particularly,” he amends. He _is_ still trying to make sense of the ancient research notes for this statement, written in a hand that reminds him of his grandmother’s and is no easier to read, but he’s not made any progress. It’s nothing that can’t truly wait a moment. 

“Good,” Elias says. “I won’t take up too much of your time. There’s a formal event being hosted tomorrow night for patrons of the Institute, and all of the department heads are expected to attend.” 

Jon is halfway to opening his mouth to make his excuses--he has a conflict, they’re still drowning in work to be done, he can’t possibly--when Elias cuts him off. “That includes you.” 

“Elias,” Jon says plaintively, already dreading what _formal event_ will entail.

“You’ll be fine, Jon,” Elias says smoothly, barreling over his complaints before he so much as has a chance to voice them. “I have full faith in your ability to--oh, how did you put it last week? To “be more lovely”.” His smile widens, just a little, and Jon barely suppresses the urge to slump to his desk. “It starts at eight; I’ll give you the details. Do you have something to wear?”

Jon doesn’t; he has one suit, and he got it in uni from a charity shop. It’s formal enough for an interview, and got him the job in Research, but at this stage it’s starting to wear thin in places. He’ll have to hire a tuxedo and hope they have something for a man of his height so he doesn’t look like he’s wearing his father’s suit. 

He’s been silent for long enough that he’s not surprised when Elias says, “I’ll take that as a no, then. Stand up for me.” 

Jon frowns, but obeys; there is still a voice in the back of his mind telling him _you need impress him_ whenever Elias is around him, and it is louder than usual when he stands. Elias circles him slowly, looking him up and down, and Jon knows his face must be red. 

“Elias?” he asks, hesitant, trying not to be distracted by how close Elias is to him right now. He needs to impress him. He needs to hold still for this, whatever it is, and try not to be distracted by the way those bright silver eyes are taking him in. He wants to reach out and steady himself on the desk, wants to reach out to steady himself on _Elias_ , he doesn’t _know_ , wants--

“I believe I have something that will fit you,” Elias says, as though he is not two inches taller than Jon and broader than him besides, and Jon tries to hide his puzzlement. He reaches over Jon, the heat of his body growing close just for a moment, and Jon takes in a quick, sharp breath, but then it is abruptly over and Elias has hold of one of the notebooks open on Jon’s desk. He scribbles something down and tears off the piece, handing it to Jon. “My address,” he says, as though this is a normal thing to do, to hand his employee his home address, and--maybe it is? Jon has never been at this level in a career. “Come by around six tomorrow and we’ll get you ready.” 

“Right,” Jon says, taking the paper with shaking hands and wishing that some small part of him didn’t want Elias close again. “Thank you.” 

Elias nods, and then makes to head for the door, as though he hasn’t left Jon standing beside his desk, a flustered, confused mess. “Oh, and Jon,” he says over his shoulder. 

“Yes?” 

He smiles. “Don’t be late.”

*

Elias’s flat is a little ways outside London proper, on a tree-lined street with little old-fashioned brick buildings, and as the taxi pulls up Jon tries to gather himself. He still needs to make a good impression. Needs to not be--distracted by other things, lingering thoughts about the way it feels when Elias is close to him, or gives him a passing bit of praise, or leans over him when he’s working and points out something that he has missed. He’s not used to his thoughts lingering on someone like this. Isn’t entirely sure what to do with it. He shakes his head; it’s _inappropriate_. He is going over to Elias’s place to be given something to wear to a formal event for his _job_ , and he has to push past the part of him that wishes it was for some other reason. 

The door is an old, wooden thing, with an elaborate gold knocker, and when he knocks twice, short and sharp, Elias only lets him linger for a moment before opening the door to him. He’s dressed in a flowing black shirt with small buttons and comfortable trousers, and he looks so much more relaxed than at work; Jon has never seen him in anything but a suit. The shirt has two buttons unbuttoned, and Jon’s eyes, despite himself, flick to the open expanse of his throat, the hint of collarbone he can see, caught by the thought of how strange this is, how it feels almost forbidden, to see the hollow of a throat that is always covered.

“Come in, Jon,” Elias says, and steps back, and Jon steps inside to get out of the cold. Elias’s house is not as large as he expected, but it is warm and well-decorated and all of the furniture seems _old_ , carefully-carved and luxurious, almost certainly antique. One of the walls is lined with books, and Jon’s fingers itch to go through them and see what sorts of secrets he can uncover. There is a faint fire crackling in the fireplace. Elias looks like he belongs here, the simple elegance of it all the most natural place for him to be, and Jon shifts awkwardly from foot to foot after he toes his shoes off. He takes off his coat, because it gives him something to do with his hands that is not investigate the bookshelf or touch something that is far too fragile and expensive to touch, and Elias doesn't say anything further, just watches him, observing in pleased silence his reaction to the room.

“It’s… nice,” Jon says, and then winces at how childish that feels to say. How inadequate.

“I do try,” Elias says, turning away to hang up Jon’s coat. “The clothes are in my room. This way.” 

If being in Elias’s house is strange, being in his bedroom is stranger. The bed is old, the headboard thick, carved wood, and the sheets are dark and silky. There are a scattering of books on Elias’s bedside table, each with a bookmark sticking out, and a mirror half the width of the wall on the opposite side above his dresser. Elias sides open his closet door and looks inside, a quick look back at Jon as if to appraise him for size again, and then selects something from the very back with a small nod. 

“These were a gift from… an old friend,” Elias says, looking down at the pieces he’s selected before holding them out to Jon to examine. There’s a little amused smile on his face, like this is a joke that Jon is not in on, and Jon is grateful to have the pieces of clothing to hold so that he can hide himself behind them and not think about how intensely out of place he feels. 

And then he gets a good look at the clothes, and his nervous mood evaporates into something else entirely. “Elias,” he says, staring at them. “Is this a joke?”

“No?” Elias says, raising a curious eyebrow at him. “Why would it be?”

The clothes _are_ formalwear, that much is clear, but more than that, they look as old as the furniture. They look like something out of a period drama, the cut nothing like he expects, and they _do_ look like they will fit Jon, but--

“Are these…” He hesitates, realizing how _rude_ he must have come off as. Elias has brought him into his home to _help_ him; the least he could do is not immediately make fun of the clothing. He does need the help. “They seem… a bit outdated?” he tries finally, and that gets a real smile out of Elias. 

“I think they’ll suit you,” Elias says, instead of addressing that part, and Jon forces himself to look through the clothes properly. There is a dark grey, nearly black tailcoat in thick wool, a deep green silk waistcoat with a faint, swirling pattern, a flowing white dress shirt, and a scrap of silk tied around the top of the hanger that is a tie of some kind, he thinks, although he will definitely need Elias to tie it for him. There are black trousers, although the cut is different than he’s used to, wider legs and higher-waisted and with buttons at the front, and then there is--

Jon looks up sharply again. “Elias,” he says, trying to stay polite and neutral even though his anxiety is abruptly getting the better of him, “is this a corset?” He knows men’s corsets exist, but this one looks strange, like it goes up higher than that, like it’s built for someone that has--

Does Elias _know_? How would he know? Jon transitioned before he started in Research, and all of his employment documents have the right name on them; the only person who knows is Tim, and why on _earth_ would Tim have told the head of the Institute about him?

“A modified one, yes,” Elias says. “A bit like a… binder for special occasions.” He gives Jon a careful, searching look, and then reaches out to rest a hand on Jon’s shoulder. 

“How…” Jon begins, forcing the word out, and Elias’s hand on his shoulder squeezes a little. A quick reassurance.

“I could say I have an eye for this sort of thing,” Elias says, and then smiles, something smaller and more private. “You aren’t the only one, Jon.” 

“Oh,” Jon says, his eyes going wide and the tension draining out of him all at once, replaced by a building curl of excitement. _Elias is trans too_. “I… didn’t know,” he says, and now his hands are shaking for entirely different reasons. “Thank you.” He bites back the part of him that abruptly wants to ask Elias a thousand things at once.

“So I know the… difficulty of finding clothing that suits you, at times,” Elias says, and lets go of his shoulder. The heat of his hand lingers for a long moment. “Do try them on.” 

Jon nods, still holding onto the corset with both hands as Elias busies himself by going through the closet and selecting items for himself, draping them over his arm as he goes. “You’re welcome to change in here,” Elias says, pulling the closet door closed and stepping back. “I can dress in the bathroom.” 

“Right,” Jon says faintly, and when Elias closes the door behind him, he is all at once very aware that he will be naked in Elias’s _bedroom_. It’s a strange, intimate thing to be here; he can see the cufflinks Elias wears on the dresser, the pyjamas he wears at night folded neatly and sitting on top of his pillow. The book he was reading yesterday when Jon came into his office sitting on top of the pile by his bedside with a business card bearing the Institute logo sticking out as a bookmark. 

Elias has only allowed him in here to change, and yet he finds curiosity getting the better of him. He runs his fingers along the sheets on Elias’s bed, so smooth they make his fingertips tingle. Opens the closet and thumbs through the rows of shirts. Looks at the small bottle on the dresser that contains a handful of pins: sharp, gilded things with delicate filigree designs. As he does, the mirror catches his eye again; it’s an old thing, dark wood, with elaborate scrollwork and, in the center of the frame, a small, carved eye with mirror-glass at its center. 

He tries to look away from it as he undresses, focusing on mechanically unbuttoning his trousers, his shirt, tugging off his binder, but when he is naked, he finds part of him can’t quite stop from stealing a glance back into the mirror. He’s always been scrawny, narrow hips and spindly limbs, the slightest curve to his chest, but it feels more so in this moment; he brushes his hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. Elias thought these clothes suited him. Elias left him in here, in his bedroom, because he is expecting him to represent the Institute well. He didn’t do so for Jon to go through all of his things.

The clothes do fit him. Elias was right about that; it takes a moment to figure out how the buttons work on the trousers, but the loose-fitting white shirt fits as though it was made for him, the silk cool against his skin, and he shivers as he tucks it in. When he turns around to reach for the corset, something makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he shudders, trying to will the feeling away. There is something strange and heavy in being alone in this room, something that makes him feel as though his reflection is gazing back at him even as he turns. 

The corset goes on over his shirt, and comes up just high enough to serve as a makeshift binder, as Elias had said; he looks down at it with a curious eye. It’s stiff, dark fabric, and looks as old as the rest of the clothing. He wonders who it was made for.

“Do you need any help?” Elias asks, from outside the door, and Jon jolts, straightening up. 

“... Yes,” he admits after a pause, trying to tug the corset strings tighter himself and mostly failing at it. 

Elias is already fully dressed when he opens the door. His clothes are dark and perfectly fitted to him, and something small and envious curls in Jon at how effortless it all looks. “The corset?” Elias asks, eyeing him, and Jon’s eyes flick to Elias’s own waistcoat, wondering if he has one of his own underneath or if that is something he no longer needs. He nods, instead, and turns away from Elias, holding his arms out from his sides.

“Take a deep breath,” Elias says, his voice in Jon’s ear and his body a long line of heat along Jon’s back, and Jon fails to suppress a shiver. He breathes in as deeply as he can and holds it as he feels Elias’s hands on his back. “ _Good_ ,” Elias says, and starts to pull each lace tight, one by one, and Jon closes his eyes, willing his hands to stop trembling. Each pull steals the breath from Jon further, and he strains with the effort of not breathing out, of staying still, of _obeying_. 

“There we are,” Elias says, finally, a smile in his voice, and Jon lets himself breathe, relaxing into the hands still at his back before Elias withdraws entirely. His vision is still swimming faintly, and the corset restricts his breathing just enough to be a constant reminder that it is there, even as he slips the waistcoat on over it and buttons it. “Anything else?”

Jon looks up as he slips the last button through. “The… tie,” he says, glancing over at the strip of fabric on the bed. 

“It’s a cravat,” Elias says, only half-concealing his amusement. “But of course.” He steps close again, facing Jon, and tilts his head up with a finger under his chin, and Jon’s already pounding heart beats faster. For a wild moment, he thinks Elias means to kiss him; he almost leans into it on pure instinct, and then he feels Elias’s long, clever fingers at his collar, raising it up to slide the silk underneath and then setting to work. Jon holds as still as he can, trying to ignore the low curl of heat in his belly from the proximity, from the way Elias’s fingers brush his collarbone through the thin, flowing shirt as he works. 

“There we are,” he says finally, giving it a last pat, and reaches for one of the pins on the dresser to slowly slide it through the fabric and keep it in place. He lingers for a moment, this time, still so close to Jon, surveying his work. Watching him. His hand brushes Jon’s cheek briefly as he withdraws, an accidental caress, and Jon wants him close again, some small, desperate part of him longing to reach out and pull Elias back. 

“Thank you,” Jon says, instead, pulling his tailcoat on and trying to concentrate on anything else.

“Look,” Elias says, and so Jon turns and steps closer to the mirror. Elias was right; the clothes _do_ suit him, like they were made for him, and there is something glittering with approval in Elias’s eyes as he surveys Jon’s form in the mirror that Jon wants to keep, wants to put in his pocket and carry with him. He’s done well. 

The two of them stand there for a long moment, Elias just behind Jon, like a dark shadow at his back, his crisp collar and sharp lines, and Jon, resplendent in his vibrant green. Elias rests a hand on his shoulder and lets it linger there, the heat bleeding out through it into the rest of Jon’s body.

“Is it time?” Jon asks, after a long moment, even though he does not want to tear his eyes away. 

“Soon,” Elias says, checking his watch. He draws his hand away, and Jon sighs at the loss without meaning to. “I’ll call us a car.” 

*

There are more people than Jon can count at the party. A hundred, or perhaps more, all milling about, taking appetizers and glasses of wine off plates held by blank-faced waiters in tuxedos or chatting together around tables, and there is the faint swell of music in the background. As he and Elias walk in, a dozen pairs of eyes flick up to meet his, and he fights against the urge to break past Elias and run away and out the door. He is not cut out for this sort of thing. These sorts of events require him to _make nice_ , something he has never been anything but hopeless at.

“You’ll be fine,” Elias whispers to him, and reaches out to take two glasses of wine off the tray of a waiter passing by. He doesn’t abandon Jon to mingle with the crowds, as Jon had feared, just guides him around with careful touches at his shoulder, his waist, to join him in conversations as he greets donors whose names slip from Jon’s mind like water, older men and women with bright smiles and hands to shake, and Jon nods and mechanically introduces himself over and over until his hand stops feeling like his own. 

“The new Archivist?” a voice says from behind him, in the one moment where Elias has stepped away to pluck a sampling of appetizers off a plate and left him undefended. The voice comes from an ancient old man, wrinkled and pink like a newborn with a wisp of gray hair. He is wearing a bright blue suit and a waistcoat that is patterned to look like a peacock feather, and his shoes are purple, and somehow, Jon thinks, he is pulling it off. 

“Yeah,” Jon says, and then licks his lips, clears his throat, tries again. “Yes, I’m the new Head Archivist. Jonathan Sims.”

“Simon Fairchild. Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” the old man says brightly as he shakes Jon’s hand with a grip firmer than he had been expecting; he has a genial sort of voice, and he leans in a bit closer as he smiles, giving Jon’s outfit a very obvious once-over. “I didn’t realize he was _so_ taken with you. Goodness.”

“Pardon?” Jon asks, flushing.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” the old man says, a twinkle in his eye. “ _Elias_ , I never thought I’d see this one in circulation again. How many years has it been?” 

Jon blinks and looks over his shoulder; Elias has come back to his side, and is looking at the old man with something between fondness and exasperation.

“Long enough,” Elias says, and a look passes between the two of them. “I felt it was… appropriate for the occasion.” 

“I see, I _see_. Well. I shouldn’t be keeping you. Good to see you, Elias. And your new Archivist.” He turns to Jon. “He has very high hopes for you.” 

“... Thank you?” Jon says, and is still blinking in confusion as the old man disappears into the crowd. “Is he…” He tries to think of the politest way to phrase it. “Is he always like that?”

“Generally,” Elias says, snorting into his drink. “He does love a good scene. Always has.” He leans in and says, quieter and more conspiratorial, “He once cheated an entire party out of their money at cards, and then pretended to throw himself out a fourth floor window to get out of it.” 

Jon smiles without meaning to, the bafflement fading, and looks around the room. Wonders, for an idle moment, just how many of these people Elias actually knows.

“I think we’ve made our introductions,” Elias says, as though he can hear it. “Now. Do you see that woman over there? She once--” 

He has a tidbit about everyone, Jon finds, ranging from the amusing to the extremely personal, little pieces of gossip he gives Jon until Jon finds himself completely distracted from all of the handshaking in favor of drinking it all in. Entirely without meaning to, he finds that they end up making a bit of a game of it as they move through the party, trying to listen in on every conversation, to catch every whisper and share it. Lingering by the tables when a card game starts up and Simon and two other men he doesn’t recognize start a furious sniping match over their hands. Taking a moment longer than needed with the appetizers to look busy as a whispered conversation begins nearby. It’s not something he normally does, but Elias, who is normally straightlaced and pleasant, looks _delighted_ as Jon reports back from the latest table, sharing a secret of his own in return, and it spurs him on further. 

“Having fun?” Elias asks, bringing him his forgotten drink, and he finds, to his surprise, that he is. He was fully expecting the night to be miserable, to stand there awkward and overly buttoned-up in a corner as Elias made small talk with strangers, and even though some of the strangers _have_ given him, and his outfit in particular, a very odd sort of look, he finds himself smiling in answer. He takes a sip. The wine is good, although very dry, and he lets himself savor it. 

“You learn how to make your own amusement in places like this,” Elias says, leaning back against the nearest table to survey the room once more. He glances at Jon, and there is something very far away and nostalgic in his eyes, an almost sad curl to his smile. “I used to be… more involved, but that was many years ago now.” 

“You don’t know these people as well?” Jon asks, leaning against the table with him and taking another sip of his wine. 

“You could say that,” Elias says, closing his eyes. “Well. I believe our night is nearly over. Anything else you want to hear before we go?” 

Jon looks over to one of the tables entirely without meaning to, where one of the older couples has been having, in little whispered snippets at appetizers and while watching cards and, once, outside on the balcony where they thought their discussion wasn’t quite loud enough to be heard from the doorway, the start of what he thinks might be rather a nasty divorce. 

“Ah,” Elias says, and his smile widens as he follows Jon’s gaze. “Yes. Let’s.” 

*

Elias’s hands lingers on Jon as he helps him into the car at the end of the night, as though he has had considerably more than the one glass of wine, and Jon, still alight with the mischief and delight of the evening as they’d tried, between the two of them, to get the shape of that last conversation, finds himself leaning into it more than he intends. Drunk on secrets. He smiles at Elias, and Elias smiles back, slow and easy, and he does not even think twice about it when Elias directs the car to go back to his flat instead of taking Jon home.

“Come in for a nightcap?” Elias asks, opening the door for him, and Jon finds himself nodding. He’s not ready for the night to be over. Not just yet. Elias does not reach out a hand to him when he gets out of the car, and he finds himself wishing he had, just to feel the heat of it, and he has to close his eyes and shake his head at himself as Elias unlocks his front door. Elias is still his boss. Still the Head of the Institute, even though they have spent the past two hours lurking at the corners of a party gossiping to each other like a pair of teenagers. 

It’s only when he’s settled in on the couch in the front room, the slowly fading fire in the fireplace warming his feet, that it starts to sink in that he is on Elias’s couch, alone with him in his flat, and he is wearing Elias’s clothes. Their fingers brush as Elias hands him a drink, a sharp, earthy-smelling scotch with ice, and a tiny shiver of pleasure goes through Jon at the motion. Elias undoes his bowtie with one hand and tosses it to the couch beside him before sitting down beside Jon, the ancient couch creaking under their combined weight and tipping them minutely closer together. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Elias says, sipping his own scotch delicately. “It was… not something Gertrude ever took to.” 

“I imagine,” Jon says, snorting. He never knew her properly, but from everything he has heard, she very much does not strike him as the type. _More cardigan than woman_ , Tim calls her, once in a while, and Jon imagines her sitting on her couch alone, reading a book with a cup of tea by her side, grimacing at the very thought of parties or excitement in general. Elias, beside him, coughs a bit. Jon is about to ask him if he’s alright, but Elias waves him off, taking another sip to wet his tongue. 

“She had her uses,” Elias says, and looks Jon over again carefully. “But I think in many ways you are suited to this role in ways she wasn’t. Do you know about the founding of the Institute?” 

“Very little,” Jon says, sitting up straighter at the prospect of being given more information unprompted. Elias is a wellspring of knowledge; he rarely shares it directly with Jon, but once in a while he’ll get on a tangent and Jon will sit there, fascinated, as he goes into history Jon is only dimly aware of in such rich, lurid detail that Jon is entirely swept away by it. 

“Jonah Magnus was a bit like you,” Elias says after a moment, his words slow and thoughtful. “Very curious about everything. Hungry for knowledge. It’s a good trait to have in our line of work. I have some of his personal correspondence in my office; I know you all are terribly busy cleaning up Gertrude’s mess, but when you have time, perhaps…”

“Have you read them?” Jon asks, setting down his scotch and turning closer to face Elias, and Elias pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting Jon’s, and then smiles slowly.

“Oh yes,” he says. He doesn’t ask, _do you want to hear about them?_ because there is no point to that, not with the way Jon is craning forward to listen, and so he closes his eyes and relaxes into the couch and begins to weave a picture of a man Jonah once knew, an old friend by the name of Jonathan. “Not you, of course,” Elias says, at Jon’s surprised little intake of breath. “He was a doctor. A good man, in some ways, but never possessing quite enough courage to _explore_ what was possible in the world. He met Jonah when they were still very young and the Institute was still just a small collection of letters collected from old friends at parties, mostly lies and old wives’ tales, stories to scare children into staying in bed and remembering their nightly prayers…” 

He speaks about the man like an old friend, with all the richness of description of a man who has learned his history so deeply that he inhabits it, and Jon is transfixed as he tells the story of their first meeting, a chance visit to a friend’s grave in the melancholy dead of night and a quick, furtive grave-robbing for dissection and two people who were more alike than they would admit to themselves from the moment they collided. Jon has forgotten his scotch entirely, too intent upon the words, and Elias’s eyes seem brighter at that. 

“Of course,” Elias says as he finishes, a story that is clearly only half-told, history still to unravel, but with enough closure in the moment that Jon can’t help but feel satisfied nonetheless, “it isn’t one of your statements, but I suppose you must want a break from those now and again.”

“I... “ Jon looks down at himself. “Reading them is strange. Tiring in a way that I can’t adequately explain by just--having to say it aloud. But I _am_ trying.” 

“Of course you are. You’ll get used to them,” Elias says reassuringly, resting a hand lightly on Jon’s thigh. “All of this is still so new to you, but you _are_ doing well. I don’t know if I mentioned…” 

Jon tries to look at anything other than the hand on his thigh. “Yes?” he asks, hoping that his voice does not shake. 

“On the note of Magnus, that pin used to belong to him. It was passed to me when I became the Head, but I thought it would suit you.” Elias reaches out and runs a finger across it slowly, and Jon’s eyes go very wide. He forgets to breathe for a long moment. Elias’s eyes are still so very bright and alive, and Jon doesn’t know what comes over him in that moment, but all at once he finds himself swaying towards Elias and leaning up to press their lips clumsily together. Elias’s lips are warm and soft and send a small shiver of heat through him, and then he wrenches himself away, his face gone abruptly, flaming red. 

“Elias, I’m sorry, I--I didn’t,” he stammers, frozen in place with the horror of what he’s just done. He’s just kissed _his boss_. “I don’t know what--I’m sorry.” He tries to scoot backwards on the couch, only to have Elias’s hand on his thigh tighten and halt his progress entirely. 

“... Elias?” he asks, his voice wavering, and then Elias tips his head up, two fingers under his chin, and leans in to kiss him _thoroughly_. His mouth is so hot against Jon’s, and he kisses like he has all the time in the world to do it, slow and deep, until Jon is panting against his mouth, Elias’s lips and tongue swallowing up the little helpless sounds he makes as Elias cups his face with one hand and pulls him closer, his thumb stroking over Jon’s cheekbone. 

“Good,” Elias says, soft and low, nearly a purr, and Jon shivers at his voice as Elias pulls him into another kiss. “These clothes _do_ suit you.” Heat curls in his gut as Elias’s clever mouth moves. Elias’s hand on his thigh slowly shifts upwards, his fingers dragging up the inseam, and Jon squirms as the sensation of it skitters through him. “Come here.” 

He sits back on the couch and widens his legs, and Jon, his face still aflame and his pulse racing, climbs into his lap, straddling him, and it’s even better like this, Elias’s hand at the small of his back, the other wound into his hair keeping him close, and Jon can’t help but grind down against him, all of the slow, shivery arousal in him needing an outlet _somewhere_. He doesn’t want to be greedy, but he is so wonderfully, horribly curious in this too, wanting to feel it, wanting Elias’s hands on him in a way that he is not used to. He feels almost drunk with it, seeking out Elias’s mouth every time he makes to pull away to feel those lips against his again, the sharp little pain-pleasure of his teeth as he drags Jon’s bottom lip between them, the curl of his tongue against Jon’s. 

“Jon?” Elias asks, pulling Jon against him just that little bit harder, just enough to make Jon’s breath go short with the friction. He nods, unsure of what to say, how to ask for what he wants, only knowing that for once he does not want this to _stop_ , and when Elias murmurs against his lips, “turn around,” he goes. 

Elias’s hand slides slowly up his thigh as he settles, until it is resting in the curve of his thigh and groin, his fingertips slowly teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh through the fabric, and it is only at that point that Jon gathers his thoughts enough to protest, “Elias, these--I don’t want to ruin these trousers.” His face flames. Every little brush of Elias’s hands on him feels electric, and if Elias keeps it up, he is going to make a mess of them. 

“I assure you they’ve seen worse,” Elias says into his ear and then leans down to kiss his way down Jon’s neck, his hand sliding up further to cup Jon through the trousers. He doesn’t undo the buttons or slide his hand underneath; he starts a slow, maddening rub at Jon’s cock through the trousers, and Jon fails to bite back the little moans that tumble out of his mouth at the friction, his thighs closing tight around Elias’s hand so that when he moves his hips he can rut against it, and he knows he is being so much louder than he intends; he is still _dressed_ , but it feels so good that he can’t help it. Elias kisses the curve of Jon’s ear and then runs his tongue along it, making him shiver all the harder, and Jon tries desperately to hold onto Elias’s trousers to steady himself as his hips, moving without his permission, fuck up against Elias’s hand between his legs over and over. “I… If you’re sure,” he gasps out, because he can feel himself getting close, aching with it with every movement, and Elias laughs and kisses his neck again. 

“Quite sure,” he says, and this time, when he bites, it’s hard enough to leave a mark, and Jon shudders, thinking of being able to see it later and know that it happened. “I could cover you in marks,” he says, pressing against Jon with his palm harder. “Everyone else would see them, but...” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Jon says, entirely without meaning to, something hot and dark in him thrilling at the prospect of everyone looking at him and being able to see Elias’s claim on him. 

“They already have,” Elias says, and _oh_ , he must have said it aloud. His other hand runs up Jon’s chest, across the loose shirt and the waistcoat, and Jon presses back into it, crying out as Elias’s other hand finds the shape of him through fabric, two fingers stroking across the hard little nub of his cock, and any thoughts he might be able to keep in his head are gone as the fabric rubs against him with perfect, sweet friction and he comes, shuddering in Elias’s arms, his back arching. 

“Good,” Elias says again, sounding deeply satisfied, and keeps his hand splayed across Jon’s chest, like Jon is something he owns. Something to be proprietary of. 

“Can--should I--” Jon says, gasping in air as best as he can with the corset still restricting his breathing. He wants to be kept here like this on the couch, owned and possessed and teased until he comes again, but more than that, he wants to do something for Elias in return. He hasn’t in years, but tonight is proving to be the exception to that. 

“You don’t have to,” Elias says mildly, and he would sound almost unaffected, but when Jon grinds back against him again, he pushes his hips up into it and makes a small, half-bitten off noise through his teeth. 

“I want to,” Jon says, and Elias brushes sweaty strands of hair from Jon’s forehead. Jon can feel his smile against his neck. 

“Get on your knees,” Elias says, his voice low, and Jon will never be able to look at him again without thinking of him saying those words. He nods, sliding to the floor on shaking legs, and fits himself into the vee of Elias’s legs as Elias slides his trousers down. He’s so wet, nearly dripping with it, and when Jon’s hand moves between his legs, gathering slickness, he slides his fingers into Jon’s hair and draws Jon’s head forward. It’s been a long, long time since Jon has done this, but when Elias grinds up against his mouth, his breath going harsher, he closes his eyes and opens his mouth and lets himself be used. Works his tongue over Elias as best as he can, licking his lips to savor the taste and the heat of him, and Elias’s hand tightens harder in his hair, a shivery little jolt of pain to counteract how good it feels to be on his knees like this, Elias’s hips working against his mouth. Elias takes his time with it, and sometimes his grip relaxes so that Jon can dive in himself and lick at Elias until he’s making low, soft sounds, petting through Jon’s hair as his hips shudder. Sometimes, he just uses Jon’s mouth instead. His mouth is going to be red and sore by the time he is done, another little mark of ownership, and Elias looks down at him with bright, hungry eyes as he lolls his tongue out and lets Elias rub himself against it. 

“Good,” Elias says, and Jon drinks in the praise, wanting to be perfect for him, to do this _right_ , to let him take what he wants. “My perfect Archivist.” 

Elias groans, low and satisfied, as he finishes, making a mess of the both of them, and keeps Jon there on his knees in front of him for a long while longer, his hands in Jon’s hair, Jon small and curled up at his feet, until finally he lets go and pulls Jon up into another slow, lingering kiss, seeming not to care about the taste of himself on Jon’s lips. 

“It’s too late to send you home tonight,” Elias says, and Jon doesn’t know what time it is anymore, but he has to admit that his eyes feel heavy. He nods and lets Elias lead him to the bedroom on clumsy, sore legs, trying not to focus on the way he’s made a mess of these beautiful old clothes. Elias promised him that it was alright, he tells himself. Elias strips off the rest of his clothing quick and methodical, folding each piece as he goes and setting it on the dresser, and he does not reach for his pyjamas. He turns and raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Right,” Jon says quickly, and starts to fumble at the buttons of his waistcoat. The rest is harder; Elias pulls him in close to sneak a quick kiss as he undoes the pin on the cravat and unwinds it, and he has tied the corset so tightly Jon has no choice but to hold his breath and hold still, half-naked and still shaking faintly with the adrenaline from earlier. Elias is careful as he unties him, and the blessed relief of sucking in a full breath of air after so long confined makes him go faintly lightheaded. 

Elias doesn’t curl around him in the bed, but he stays close, just enough that Jon cannot forget who he is sharing a bed with. THe sheets are soft and cool against his bare skin, and he has no idea what the hour is, but as soon as he closes his eyes, the world fades away all at once and he is lost in dreams. 

The morning sun coming through the window half-wakes him, and he feels Elias’s hand on his chest, sliding down his front, the faint buzzing arousal of early morning winding its way through him, and so instead of pulling away, he tucks himself closer to Elias and lets Elias’s fingers slip inside him; the room is quiet except for his panting breaths and Elias’s soft praises at how responsive he is and the soft, slick sounds as Elias fucks him. He drifts off to sleep again after entirely without meaning to. 

“Tea?” Elias asks from the doorway, and Jon opens his eyes blearily, all at once aware that he is naked in his boss’s bed and it is well past early morning. 

Jon nods as best as he can, still muzzy with sleep, and drags himself out of bed. His own clothes are somewhere in this room, and he tries not to look at the small, neat pile of the ones he was wearing last night, folded on top of the dresser. Of the mess he must have made of them. He dresses hurriedly, some part of the reverie of last night fading enough that he can feel himself flush at the thought. Of the things he said to Elias. The way he let him mark him, and fuck him, and put him on his knees. He is going to have to face Elias on Monday morning and pretend not to know these things about him and never tell anyone else. 

“Please,” he says, instead of voicing any of that, and Elias nods and goes, he assumes, to put the kettle on. When he pads out into Elias’s kitchen, still barefoot and hazy with sleep, his shirt hurriedly buttoned, Elias is bustling around the kitchen, getting out sugar and milk and hunting through a tea cabinet more elaborately stocked than any Jon has ever seen.

“People like to give it as a gift to the Institute,” Elias says, by way of an explanation, and selects one for Jon without asking, but Jon thinks, with a slight flush, that as of late listening to what Elias wants has ended rather well for him. 

He’s not sure what kind it is, when Elias sets it in front of him, just barely cool enough to drink with the milk added when he sips it, but it is good, rich and complex and ever so faintly spicy, and he sips it gratefully and tries to get his thoughts in order. It’s so strangely domestic, sitting across the table from Elias like this as Elias idly looks over an honest-to-God newspaper, occasionally underlining something here and there with pencil. It is almost exactly the sort of thing he pictured, in the moments where he ever had cause to picture what Elias would be like in the early morning, except for that those daydreams never included him on the other side of the table. 

“So,” Jon begins, and then stops, because he has no idea what to say. How to untangle this. It doesn’t feel awkward, precisely, but part of him is still shouting recriminations for kissing Elias in the first place and putting them both in this position. It _should_ feel awkward. 

“Do you want me to call you a taxi?” Elias asks, oblivious to the small internal crisis Jon is having, or at least choosing not to acknowledge it. “I don’t have much in the way of breakfast here.” 

“Yes please,” Jon says automatically, and then takes a sip of tea big enough to hurt his tongue. He prays the marks fade before Monday morning, or Tim is going to ask about them, and Jon is, as he has established over the years, a truly terrible liar at times. 

“Of course,” Elias says smoothly, and as he walks past Jon, he brushes his fingers ever so gently against one of the bruised little marks on Jon’s skin, just enough contact to make Jon shiver again. 

He thinks about it the whole ride home. 

*

It’s hard not to think about it. He sees Elias every day, calling him in for reports on their progress or just checking in on how he’s doing, poking his head in at lunch, and in some ways it’s easy to fall back on old routines, keeping his head down and working until he’s sufficiently distracted, but in others, he finds himself watching Elias in a way he didn’t before. Some days, it’s all he can do to not linger in Elias’s office, to see if Elias has anything else to tell him, old stories or the letters he said he had stashed away or just a long, lingering kiss. Elias doesn’t treat him any differently, as though it hadn’t happened at all; he tries not to wonder if Elias _would_ respond, if he kissed him again. 

And then there is the mess with the _thing_ Sasha met, and then Martin is driven out of his flat by a worm infestation masquerading as something person-shaped and has to start living in the Archives, and the world gets abruptly so complicated that thoughts of Elias are pushed out of his head entirely in favor of dealing with the immediate crises. 

But one morning, several weeks later, he comes in to find a box on his desk, white and smooth and with a deep green ribbon tied around it. “A gift for your promotion,” the note attached says in Elias’s handwriting. “Apologies for it being late.” 

He opens the box; inside is a deep green waistcoat, smooth and silky against his fingers, and it’s not the same one, but it is close. He thinks back to that night again, Elias’s hands on him through his trousers, Elias’s mouth on his, the heat of it all, and takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he says out loud, as though Elias is listening, and maybe he is. He does seem to have a way of knowing what’s going on in this place. 

Maybe, Jon thinks idly, he’ll go thank him in person later.


End file.
